It's a Deadman's World
by Jun Yabriel
Summary: Neku Sakuraba is a despair-driven 17-year-old high school dropout who finds himself on the receiving end of a gun. Suddenly, with rain still pouring and Shibuya snoring, he finds himself as a Player of a week-long "Reaper's Game" to prove if he's worthy of another shot at life...in the next 2400 hours. And that's just the prologue. :Rated M for DLV: "Welcome to Hell."


**It's a Deadman's World**

"My name is Neku Sakuraba. And welcome to my hell on earth."

Running…running…but from what?

 _"Neku, don't leave us. We're your friends, remember?"_

I'm running, but where to? There are street signs, lights, but I can't read them.

 _"What the hell, man? Why you wussin' out on us? Why you actin' stupid, bruh?!"_

 _"Neku, you can talk to us. We may not understand, but…talking always help. You can even pretend we're walls, you know?"_

Yeah. Walls that yell and scream and remind you how stupid you are, then bash your conscience into oblivion.

 _"C'mon, man, quit bein' a whiny pussy and just tell us! Spit it out!"_

 _"Beat, hold on…Give him a minute, okay?"_

That conversation is a blur to me, now. In fact, everything is. I can't read the traffic or the people on the street. I can't see the crosswalks. I nearly tripped off a curb. What am I doing? Where am I going? Why am I running?

Is it raining?

Thunder's rolling over my head. It's like the whole day's mad at me. For running away. For being a coward.

For being here. For existing.

My hair and clothes are soaked. My shoes, sloshed with rainwater. I feel like tearing it all off my skin. My headphones weren't waterproof, so they're useless—hanging halfway off my neck like this.

They were my staple—my definition of existence. They were a part of me. Running in the rain was a stupid idea; now, my limited-edition "CAT-ty Blue" headphones are ruined. I have no choice but to look at them with guilt and self-hatred. The one thing in my life that was perfect is gone.

And it's my fault.

I'm at a dead end. Who will hear me scream?

 **Crash!**

I did it. I destroyed them. That priceless blue plastic, now scattered everywhere. Rechargeable batteries, busted and leaking. Speakers, nostalgically intact on one side. I kneel there, fully aware but completely shocked, by the revelation that I'll never listen to them again. Recounting on my past mistakes, I realize how many I've made and succumb to a more intense self-loathing.

 _"Shiki…Beat…and Rhyme…"_

The rain feels like my tears, but I can't tell anymore. "Why did Rhyme stop him? Beat could've whipped the shit outta me, no problem. I can take a punch…! And Shiki…she could've slapped the same mess outta me, too. So, why didn't she…?"

But then, when I opened my eyes again, there was graffiti on the wall. Extensive, poisonous, intricate art that'd make a gangbanger bow to it. I didn't know what one look did to me, but I couldn't look away. Venomous colors gave it an artificial life. There was English letters and Japanese characters, but also skulls, various weapons, and animals. Hell, there were animal skulls in there, too. Somehow, everything depicted in it screamed foreboding. My eyes were drawn to the details; my hands traced over every line, highlight, and shadow.

"What the hell?! Who's over there?!"

I jump at the unknown voice. It's an aggravated man's voice; what's he so pissed about? I inadvertently lock eyes with him. My knees, unlocked by my fight-or-flight response, force a leap to my feet. On the defensive, I examine the stranger.

And, boy, was he strange. Tatted by a sadist on a hot Saturday, he bared his chest and abdomen for all to see. Inky streaks accentuated his muscles and six pack. His hair was wild, and that shredded vest looked more like a dismembered jacket. Those skinny jeans weren't too skinny on him. His boots, spotted with blood.

Actually, he was splashed with blood.

"You here to die, son of a digit?"

I freeze up. Like a fucking deer in the headlights. Did he just murder someone?

"Hoh…wait. You're the last one…!"

Wait—what last one?

Suddenly, I'm pistol-whipped. He bashes the shit outta me—then, with my back to the wall, he aims the weapon at me. I'm ready to piss myself before I see his handgun: What the hell—it has bat-wings? No, the hammer is wing-shaped. The rest of it looks like it came straight out of a _shōnen_ anime. It's big, powerful, and deadly.

Just like this guy's eyes. Dude looks crazy. He's gonna kill me, and I don't understand why!

He cocks his weapon, gives me a sadistic wink, and lips his lips. "You're a Deadman, kid."—His eyes…what the hell's wrong with this guy?! "Wait, don't shoot me!" I shriek.—"Sayonara, motherfucker."

 **Bang.**

* * *

Well. No rest for the wicked, I guess. It feels like I'm in some kind of hell. Not the Hell we all fear or embrace…but a different one. There may be no fire or brimstone, but it's got a haunting appearance. There are skyscrapers. Parks. Cars, even. And—people.

It looked just like Shibuya. Except, at the same time, it wasn't.

The sky was black as night, and the rain disappeared. Cars coldly drove past. Pedestrians walked right on by…

As if I wasn't there.

This is freaky. Just plain freaky. Why can nobody see me? How did I end up in the middle of the Scramble? Quickly, my panic replaces confusion. What the hell happened to me? Please, somebody— _any_ body—help me!

"Welcome to the UG, Neku Sakuraba."

"Who…?" I turn my eyes and see no one at first. But a miasma curls in the air over my head. Sirens blare. Fireworks flash into the air before their bright-reds flicker out. Confetti rains in from nowhere. The atmosphere is celebratory, but I feel like I'm half-dead. Metal grinds overhead, and the source of that voice is now before me.

Amidst four arriving silhouettes, only one is familiar. And, instead of a pistol in his hand, there's a megaphone. A bat-winged one, no less.

"Attention, all yoctograms!" It's him again. "Welcome to your first Reapers' Game, where you'll have a week to prove your worth! With our final Player's arrival, we can get this party started! This will officially be Day 1—and at the stroke of midnight, you'll receive the Game Master's instructions via text message…so get your phones out, kiddy-grams. They're gonna redefine the word 'lifeline' for ya. Keh heh heh…!"

What the actual hell? A Reapers' Game? I whip out my phone in pure disbelief. The clock says 23:59. So this is all supposed to go down in less than a minute.

"And now, I present to you: Game Master No. 1!"

Someone steps out into the moonlight. They have a hulking frame. Still plagued with shadows and foreboding, though.

"Yodai Higashizawa, this Game's Stalwart Ram and Holder of the Bloody Shell Psych!"

A greedy grin that could be seen from a mile away upturns the man's lips. "Ah, delicious potential stands before me…! Let me see how you fare with this simple recipe of a mission: Two parts Player and one part Contract."

Simultaneous rings. Including my own phone. My catchy ringtone sounds underneath a sea of mediocrity and unoriginality. On its top screen, there's a white skull on a black envelope flashing for my attention. I flip it open and find the Game Master's exact words typing on my screen:

[Day 1]

This is your first recipe, Players:

Two Players

One Contract-

½ cup acknowledgement,  
¼ cup agreement  
And, ¼ cup trust.

Time limit: 24 hours. Fail, and face Erasure.

Happy hunting, Players.

Is this some kind of joke? Revelers with bat wings blow confetti poppers from all over the skyline. It was a New Year's celebration without the New Year's part. Older-looking patrons clink champagne glasses, while teenage-looking ones pop shaken soda bottles. Wolf howls and catcalls echo over our heads. I wasn't the only one, right? They said "Players," as in plural.

So who were they, and how many were there?

"3…!"

"Neku…?!"

Converging all at once came Shiki, Beat, and Rhyme. From the sea of strangers. Of other Players. And under the moon's radiant light. We were appalled to see one another.

Though, that didn't stop the so-called "Reapers" from partying.

"2…!"

A drop of sweat bolted for his jawline. "What the…? What're you guys doing here?"

"1…!"

"Game on, motherfuckers! Eyes up here!"

That crazy bastard pointed to a huge monitor that'd been dark until now. Distressing script scrolled across the screen. It said:

"YOU HAVE 7 DAYS."

"Seven days? Until what?" Shiki cringed, holding her doll closer.

"The hell is this, man?!" Beat roared. He managed to catch the attention of some nearby Players. "Who's the sick wiseass who threw us into this bull?!"

"Was it them?" Rhyme aimed a timid finger at the Game's overseers. Those four shadows.

The Reapers cheered and stomped. Females shrieked with ecstasy, while males roared in excitement. They all pumped their fists in the air. "Form a bond!" they chanted over and over, "Form a bond! Form a bond with a cham-pi-on!"

"What the hell's wrong with them?"

"Are they on drugs?"

"They're _way_ too excited for this…"

Other Players had their suspicions and fears. I, on the other hand, had a feeling what this was. In order to play, I had to die. We all had to die. Was I the only one aware of it? As Rhyme huddled close to Beat and Shiki clutched her doll, I had to wonder this.

Confetti still rained. The Reapers' chants trailed off into unintelligible rants and raves. Soda spilled everywhere, but the passersby didn't give it a single glance. The moon was full and beaming. And the screen had given us an uncertain ultimatum.

Something went dark in my eyes. It was rage, disbelief, frustration, and fear.

"I have 7 days. _We_ have 7 days."

 **Welcome to hell, bitches.**


End file.
